


Stargazer

by Zetared



Series: Reprise 'Verse [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:32:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4235616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetared/pseuds/Zetared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In short, Jean-Luc Picard felt content with his lot in life.<br/>If only the same could be said for Q."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stargazer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesadchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/gifts).



> All plot points revolving around the Stargazer have been pulled together from various wikis—from the show proper and tie-in novels--and my own imagination. If any glaring inconsistencies arise, feel free to assume that it is Alternate Timeline weirdness in action.

His first command had not come to him exactly as he’d expected. He’d imagined being a fair bit older, for one, with several tours as a Bridge Officer under his belt. He had thought that he might be assigned his own ship, perhaps a model newer and faster than the old, clunky _Stargazer_ , which he loved but would not be terribly sad to leave behind should better options be presented. He had expected to eventually advance from Second to First Officer and then start another tour as a Captain, a smooth, bureaucratic transition up the ranks. Life, as it often did, had other plans for him. The death of the _Stargazer’s_ previous Captain had been sudden and brutal, his inherited ship battle-beaten and forever scarred. Jean-Luc was surprised as anyone when the disaster saw him earning another pip instead of finding himself disgraced. (Sometimes, when the fancy struck him just so, he considered those ‘what-ifs’ more deeply; what if he’d been discharged instead of promoted, what if the ship had been utterly destroyed, what if the attack had never occurred at all. In the end, however, he’d push such musings aside. ‘What ifs’ were a distraction, and reality could not be changed.)

The _Stargazer_ was a battered old ship. It took more man power to keep her together and flying than anything else. Even so, she was suited well enough to her role in space. Her crew, while eclectic at best, was as solid as they came. Picard would have happily entrusted his life, his ship, and the whole of cosmos to any of his crew—in fact, he did just that on a regular basis. Such was the nature of exploration. Jean-Luc and his crew were not exactly _close_ , a fact that seemed to rankle some of his officers from time to time, but they were professional and capable. That was more than enough.

In short, Jean-Luc Picard felt content with his lot in life.

If only the same could be said for Q.

\--

Q, predictably, was waiting for the Captain in his ready room when he returned. The junior Science Officer appeared especially aggrieved, and Jean-Luc took a moment to take a breath and steel himself for the inevitable fight that was to come.

“What have they done now?” he asked, tiredly.

“Not _they_ , Jean-Luc. Not they. _Him_. Your Jack Crusher.”

“Very well,” Jean-Luc sighed, easing himself down into his chair, “What has Mr. Crusher done to upset you, this time, Q?”

Q sniffed, clearly not appreciating the dismissive tone being levelled at him. “ _Mon Capitaine_ , it would be more prudent to ask what that meddling half-brain _hasn’t_ done. Do you know that he’s reassigned all of my current projects to that mouse Bender? All of my research, Jean-Luc, passed off to an Ensign!”

“Did he explain his reasoning for this mass reassignment?” Picard questioned, only just preventing himself from covering his face in exasperation. His CSO was a good man with a level head, but even the most reserved of men couldn’t help but crack under the force that was Q. Picard wouldn’t be at all surprised if Crusher had decided to finally give Q his due, as it were, after nearly two years of constant derision and pestering by the junior officer.

“He called me a project hog! He accused me of pulling the prime projects out from under Bender and that gasbag Jiterica and leaving them with the, and I quote, ‘drivel.’”

Picard raised his eyebrows. “Are you suggesting that that is something you _wouldn’t_ do?”

Q’s eyes widened and he stood from his own seat abruptly, waving his hands in irritation. “That isn’t the point! Of course I am assigning myself to the more complex assignments—I’m a genius. The other officers have the intellect of particularly stupid fleas, compared to me. You know it’s true. It’d be a waste of time and effort entrusting them with anything really _important_.”

“That isn’t your call to make, Q. Project assignments fall under the jurisdiction of the CSO. _You_ know _that_ is true. Besides, while I can hardly argue against your genius, you really should give your fellow crewmembers more credit. Every member of my crew has more than earned their place on this ship.”

“Fine, then! The solution to this problem is obvious.”

“Is it?”

“Yes! Promote me.”

“…You wish to take Crusher’s place as CSO? On what grounds?”

Q rolled his eyes expansively. “Because I’m _smarter_ than he is, of course, and this way I can do what I damn well please without idiotic Starfleet policy getting in my way!”

Jean-Luc frowned at his friend. “I don’t care for that type of sentiment on my ship. Talk like that often leads to mutiny.”

Q snorted, throwing himself back into his chair. He sprawled in the seat though they both knew full well that he ought to be sitting at attention, or parade rest at the very least. Q had always been unconcerned with the chain of command—one of the many reasons that he forever hovered at the rank of Lt. Junior Grade, despite his admittedly vast intellect and usefulness to the fleet. Hearing him speak so dismissively of the hierarchy now, though, was truly troubling. Jean-Luc wouldn’t put it past his long-time friend to enact some sort of vicious vengeance against Crusher if so inclined.

“Please, _Captain_. You know that I’d never depose you. Not after all the time and effort it’s taken to get you this far.”

Jean-Luc’s lips twitched despite himself. “I like to think I had something to do with it, as well.”

“Well, you’ve always been prone to self-delusion. Speaking of, how did your date with what’s-her-name go?”

“You know very well her name is Jenice. And don’t change the topic, Q. We aren’t resolved on this Crusher issue, yet.”

Q waved a hand idly, leaning back a bit more to stare at the ceiling in an obvious sulk. “Of course we are. I know you’d never really oust that chisel-jawed dictator for my sake. Clearly I’ll have to get my projects back on my own.”

“You will do no such thing. I’ll speak with Mr. Crusher myself. Stay out of it.”

Q just sighed noisily.

“I mean it, Mr. Hill.”

Q groaned at the use of his given name, as he always had for all the years that Jean-Luc had known him. “Yes, yes, Jean-Luc. I’ll keep my devious little fingers to myself. Just get me my work back. I refuse to lower myself to the level of data analysis-grunt for the rest of my career on this clunker of a ship.”

Wounded despite himself—the _Stargazer_ truly was worse for wear—Jean-Luc gave the top of his desk an idle pat. “I’m sure a compromise can be made. I will work with Mr. Crusher to ensure that data-crunching duties and the more complex scientific projects are more neatly balanced.”

“Ugh, _sharing_ ,” Q groused, but he dropped his gaze from the ceiling and back to Jean-Luc again. He smiled, the expression typically smug. “Good. We’ve finished talking about that. So? Your dinner with that woman—how did it go?”

It was Jean-Luc’s turn to scowl. “You know very well how it went, or you wouldn’t ask.”

Q did not grin as much as show his teeth. “She was never good enough for you, anyway.”

“I don’t quite think that was the problem,” Jean-Luc sighed, feeling another pang. Leaving Jenice alone at the café was the height of brutishness, the kind of crass, juvenile behavior he thought he’d grown out of after the Academy. He really ought to at least call her to explain himself. Later, perhaps, after they had left port and were safely in space once more.

“No? Then what _was_ the problem? Did she throw water in your face? I love it when they do that.”

A call beeped in on Picard’s comm.

“Saved by the bell,” Q muttered, already swinging his legs off the chair arm and back to the floor in order to retreat—Q tried to stay out of Captain’s business as much as possible, unless his pet projects were involved. “See you later.”

Picard watched his surly science officer go and pushed aside any feelings of foreboding still lingering in his gut. Q often inspired that feeling in him. It was best to ignore it and save the effort for that inevitable moment when everything started falling to pieces.

\--

Ensign Jiterica’s containment suit sprung a leak one afternoon while she was working her way through one of Q’s more complicated projects. In the ensuing horrified panic, Ensign Bender knocked over a sensitive chemical experiment while reaching—uselessly—for a piece of Jiterica’s essence, which had by that point drifted entirely out of the humanoid-shaped body suit and was separating out into cool, damp patches all over the lab. The chemical reaction caused an instantaneous explosion, destroying half of the laboratory space and causing Ensign Bender to end up in medical. In addition, over half of Jiterica’s ‘body’ had managed to be sucked up in the fire-suppressant systems after the explosion and it took the better part of two days to track all of her down and siphon her back into the newly-repaired suit. Ensign Bender recovered admirably, and the ship’s engineers postulated that the lab would be back in useable condition within the week. Overall, the Captain felt it could have been much worse. Even so, he was unsurprised when Q invited himself into his ready room that evening, looking harried and irritated with just a dash of ‘I told you so’ smug.

Jean-Luc held up a hand before Q could so much as open his mouth. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Crusher. Your projects have all been returned to you. From now on, any intensive assignments that your fellow junior officers take on will require your full supervision.”

Q blinked owlish at him a moment, putting it together. The smug smirk dropped away, replaced by slack-jawed shock. “You’re…I…you want me to _babysit_ them?”

Picard had to work very hard not to pick up that smug smile from where Q had left it. It was just so good to see the man foiled by his own arrogance, from time to time. “Well, you were right. They aren’t quite ready to handle these more difficult assignments alone. Who better to supervise their progress than you? It’s the best thing for their safety and the safety of everyone else on this ship.”

“…Crusher could--.”

“Oh, Q. Come now, you said it yourself. You’re just so much _smarter_.”

Q glowered, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his tall form radiating anger and disgust. “You never have played fair, Jean-Luc.”

Picard allowed himself that small, smug smirk, just for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”

A moment of silence passed between them while Q glared at him, seemingly weighing the pros and cons of lunging right over Picard’s desk and punching him in the jaw. Then, the man sighed gustily, all the coiled anger and hurt draining out with the air, leaving him loose-limbed and bearing just the slightest cloud of surliness in his expression. “I’ll get my projects back? No more meddling?”

“Unless you yourself appear to be on a track to threaten the safety of this crew, yes. You may use your best judgment and _assist_ Mr. Crusher in assigning duties amongst the science staff.”

Q sneered a bit at the word ‘assist,’ but he nodded his agreement, all the same. They both knew he was getting the better part of the deal. Q secretly loved bossing people around—it soothed his giant ego, and, besides, he wasn’t a terrible teacher, all said and done, once one got past his sharp tongue and vocal disdain for practically everything. Coaching the younger science staff would be good for everyone, in the long run. Even Jack Crusher couldn’t find it in himself to argue against Jean-Luc’s plan once it’d been all laid out.

“Very well. Can I go?”

Picard snorted at the typical lack of formality. He gestured to the door expansively. “By all means.”

Q strode toward the door. As it slid open, however, he paused and turned around again, hovering.

“Yes?” Picard questioned, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“I won’t let anything like this happen to them again, Jean-Luc,” Q said, words all in a rush, “I promise you.”

Before Jean-Luc could scrounge up an answer to that surprising declaration, Q had gone.

\--

It was Jack Crusher himself who brought the problem to Jean-Luc’s attention some time later.

Picard sighed softly when the door to his quarters gave its usual chirruping chime. He’d been winding down toward bed and had just sat down with a cup of tea, the first step in his nightly ritual. A Captain’s duties, however, never took a break, not even for tea. “Come.”

Jack ducked his way through the door as if he expected it might change its mind if he tarried too long. “Good evening, sir. Sorry for the interruption, but I have something I need to discuss with you, and I don’t think it can wait much longer.”

“It’s all right, Jack,” Jean-Luc said, waving the other man toward a chair as he took his own once more. He took a sip of the tea while the other man—uncharacteristically twitchy—got himself settled. “What’s on your mind?”

“Ah, well. It’s a bit complicated. I don’t mean to tell tales on anyone, sir, and coming here…well, it’s probably out of line, but for all that—I’m Chief Science Officer, after all, so that makes me as responsible as anyone, doesn’t it?”

Jean-Luc put his tea down. Whatever was going on must be quite serious if it had reduced his usually eloquent and level-headed First Officer to such a state. “It’s all right, Number One. Just spit it out.”

Jack huffed out a small laugh at Jean-Luc’s direct approach. The man ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up just a bit on one side. Jean-Luc bit back a reflexive smile. For all that the situation seemed somewhat serious, it was hard not to give into the rush of familiarity that gesture invoked. Jack was a damn fine First and, though Jean-Luc didn’t dare think of him as such too often, an even better friend. If Jean-Luc could put the man’s mind at ease about whatever was troubling him, he would do it without hesitation.

“I think that Lt. Hill sabotaged Jiterica’s suit, sir, and set up that experiment to damage the lab.”

Picard experienced a shift in emotions so extreme and sudden that it left him reeling for a moment, disoriented and nearly numb.

“Sir?” Crusher prompted, more cautious, “I know it sounds ridiculous, sir, but I have evidence, and it’s not really so surprising, considering--.”

“You have evidence?” His voice barely seemed to carry past his throat, stuck.

“Well. Not…evidence, exactly, but I--.”

“Starfleet does not look kindly on baseless accusations, Mr. Crusher--.”

“I was ‘Jack’ when I came in here,” Crusher muttered.

“—especially of such a serious nature,” Picard continued, ignoring the interruption, “This could destroy his career.”

“One crewmen injured, another disembodied for two days, and our only lab nearly destroyed. Sounds like a pretty fair punishment to me, sir.”

“ _If_ he’s guilty. What is this not-evidence you’ve collected?”

Crusher sighed and managed to displace his hair again. The sight did not make Jean-Luc want to smile, now. If anything, he had the completely irrational desire to pull the hair right out of the other man’s scalp. He took a sip of tea to steady himself. A Captain had to remain impartial. If Crusher felt he had evidence against Q in this matter, it was important to be objective and hear him out. “That’s just the thing. I can’t really explain. It’s a matter of protecting the privacy of another crewmember, sir. I can’t tell you what I was told without compromising them, and all I really have is heresy. You understand, don’t you?”

“I do. Even so, I can hardly take that kind of non-statement into account as evidence of sabotage.”

Crusher sighed. “I know. But I couldn’t just…I thought you ought to know, even if for the life of me I can’t think how to go about collaborating what I was told.”

“You thought I would take some kind of action without proof?”

“Not really. But I thought—well, if someone is going around causing accidents on board, the Captain ought to _know,_ Jean-Luc.”

Picard agreed, but also he rather wished Crusher had just kept his mouth shut. “I appreciate your good intentions, Jack, but until I have more definitive proof--.”

“I know. I’ll look into it. Permission to call Lt. Joseph in, sir?”

Jean-Luc grimaced. He wasn’t very keen on pulling the Head of Security into this matter, but he knew that if anyone could get to the bottom of the situation, it was Pug. “Granted. Keep it quiet, though, will you, please? The last thing I want on my ship is someone taking justice into their own hands, especially against a man who may very well be innocent.”

Crusher opened his mouth as if to argue against Q’s presumed innocence, but he fell silent once he realized that, truly, he couldn’t make much of a case without giving up the name and nature of his source.

“I do appreciate your diligence,” Picard said by way of obvious dismissal.

The other man gave a single jerky nod in recognition and offered the Captain a sheepish salute on his way out the door.

Picard picked up his now-cold tea and stared into the dark surface of the liquid, resigned to a long and sleepless night.

\--

Q pressed an especially large mug of straight black coffee into his hands before he was even quite outside of his quarters.

“How long have you been waiting there?” Jean-Luc questioned, sounding much more suspicious than he’d intended.

Q raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Not long. That was for me, actually, but when I saw you, I decided to do my good deed for the day and extend some charity toward a lost soul. You look like the back end of a Klingon Waste Worm—or the front end, if you like, it really makes no difference.”

“It was a long night,” Picard mumbled into the mug. He’d always been more of a tea man, but sometimes coffee was the only recourse. He tried not to grimace overly much at the bitter taste and the almost gritty consistency. He’d been around Q long enough to know that, indeed, this was the man’s preference; he called it ‘coarse-ground and caustic,’ a very apt phrase for both the drink and the man. At least it was guaranteed to wake him up. Yawning on the bridge was a grievous sin, especially for the Captain.

“Yes, I know,” Q replied, and his tone was so intensely bitter it was almost on par with the coffee, “I saw that numbskull Crusher dodging into your quarters. Late night meeting, was it?”

Picard blinked. He hadn’t heard Q sound quite so prickly since the last—and final--time they’d talked about Jenice. “Jack had a few time sensitive reports he wanted to go over,” he lied, uneasily. Once, years ago, he’d had cause to realize that Q’s feelings for him ran deeper than even their already quite intimate friendship. Q had nearly died at the time, however, and all of the chaos in the years intervening had caused Jean-Luc to push the errant thought aside. Now, it reared its head again, more insistently. Could Q really be _jealous_?

Q didn’t seem to buy into the lie, but he didn’t press the point, either, which probably indicated that he believed that Crusher and his Captain had not, in fact, been involved in any untoward behavior.

“The lab has been cleared. We’re going to be moving equipment and furniture for the better part of the day,” Q said as they neared his usual turbolift. “I’m really going to wish I’d kept that coffee. ‘Bye, Jean-Luc. Try not to throw us into any near-fatal fire fights today, hm?”

Picard finished the coffee just as he arrived at the bridge. It was a comfort to settle into his chair and take in all the reports from the outgoing Beta Shift staff, a familiar and soothing routine that assured all was well with the world. Of course, all was _not_ well with the world, but personal matters had no place on the bridge--not even the Captain’s.

\--

Picard appreciated his little routines. Structure was a comfort, and repetition in one’s schedule was a hard-earned thing in Starfleet. Every now and again, however, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, something unexpected would arise to throw a wrench in his plans. He certainly hadn’t expected Dr. Greyhorse, CMO, to comm him out of the blue after Alpha shift.

“Doctor? What’s the matter?”

Dr. Carter Greyhorse laughed softly, putting Picard more at ease. “Why is it everyone always asks me that? Can’t a man just say hello?”

“It _is_ a bit alarming to receive a spontaneous call from medical,” Picard said, “What can I do for you this evening, Doctor?”

“It’s nothing serious, sir, I just wanted to let you know that Ensign Bender has been cleared for duty.”

Picard frowned a little; this was information that he could easily have received in print. “I see. That’s good news. Is there anything else?”

A pause. “Well, sir. I also wanted to give you a bit of a warning—the Ensign was pretty upset. I wouldn’t mention it, usually, but it doesn’t really fall under patient-doctor privilege, and considering the head of steam she had worked up when she left here, it seemed like a good idea to mention it--.”

“Doctor,” Picard sighed, wishing that his crew would just get to the _point_ , sometimes.

“She seems pretty convinced that Mr. Hill is at fault for the accident, sir. Ship scuttlebutt also has it that she’s claiming to have witnessed Q tampering with the containment suit and the chemical experiment before the event.”

Ah, so it was Ensign Bender who was Crusher’s secret source. Picard wasn’t surprised—Emily Bender was a reserved, practical woman for the most part, but even she often locked horns with Q, resulting in some very loud arguments in the labs. Picard could easily understand why she might have motive for telling on Q. But would she possibly _lie_ about what she had seen? Picard felt that sense of foreboding kicking in, again, and this time he welcomed it. The pieces had started to fall, now, and it was time to put things back together. “I understand. Thank you for the report.”

“Yes, sir,” Greyhorse said, hesitantly. “I’m afraid I can’t collaborate or disprove her story based on the medical evidence, Captain, but I’m happy to make myself available if you need any help getting to the bottom of this.”

Picard found himself remembering, suddenly, one evening a few years previous when the _Stargazer_ crew had been on R &R. Nearly everyone had beamed down to their docking planet for some fun and rest, but Q had been stubborn and unwilling to leave the lab.

_“This project is time-sensitive and of the utmost importance, Jean-Luc. I can’t just abandon it willy-nilly because_ Starfleet _thinks I need a_ nap _.”_

Greyhorse had come to the rescue, then, badgering Q ceaselessly about the man’s need to take a break.

_“You haven’t slept in two days. You are living on coffee and air. Your blood pressure is so high it’s on its way to another galaxy. As CMO, I’m_ ordering _you to put the beakers down and take a load off_.”

Eventually, between the two of them, Carter and Jean-Luc pulled Q away from his work. The three of them then spent a remarkably pleasant evening playing alternating games of 3-D chess (Q won every single round, of course) and talking of nothing very important. It hadn’t been a life-altering encounter for the three of them, but Picard supposed that Greyhorse might feel obligated to do his part to prove Q’s innocence if he was, in fact, not at fault.

“Thank you, Carter,” Picard said with more sincerity, “I’ll let you know. Have a good evening. Picard out.”

Jean-Luc sighed and closed his eyes against a building tension headache. Why was it that he could negotiate with hostile forces, deliver diplomatic speeches, and engage in live combat with ease, but it was dealing with Q that always left him this feeling this way, uncertain and lost?

His door chimed.

“Come,” he sighed out, muttering a soft ‘speak of the Devil’ as Q stepped in and immediately sprawled across his preferred chair.

“I suppose you’ve been privy to the rumor mill?” Q said by way of greeting. His tone was airy, but Picard knew it to be false cheer. The man was twitchy, uncomfortable. Q had shifted restlessly just like this the first time Picard’s Maman had caught them tracking mud into the house.  

“I have,” Jean-Luc said, gravely. He went to the replicator, ordering one hot tea and one hot chocolate with peppermint—something of a vice for Q, who probably needed it right now, guilty or not.

“Well?” Q demanded, sitting up just enough to cradle the mug in his hands. “Do you believe it?”

Jean-Luc stalled for time by taking a sip of his still too-hot tea. It burned his tongue, but he persevered. Finally, he could put it off no longer. “I don’t believe or disbelieve Ensign Bender. Evidence is being collected as we speak. I will reserve my judgement until all the pieces are in place.”

Q stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “You really think I did it.”

“I think you may have done it, perhaps, yes. You must admit, Q, it’s not so unlikely. You have a long history of taking matters into your own hands. I know better than anyone. Remember when we were in grade six and you devised that super-resilient sticky polymer to glue Winifred Blanche’s fingers together?”

“She wouldn’t stop poking at you during class! You got in trouble for being noisy during the lecture, but it was that little freckled hell beast’s fault! Besides, the glue was soluble. Mostly.”

Jean-Luc gave into temptation and squeezed the bridge of his nose against the headache throbbing behind his eyes. “Q,” he ground out, “Such behavior is par for the course from children, perhaps, but we’re adults, now. Vigilante justice is not the way, especially when you are acting entirely for your own interests. You could have gotten someone killed, and all because you lost ownership of a few assignments!”

“I _could_ have gotten someone killed _if_ I’d done it,” Q corrected, sharply. The tall man swung up from his sprawl over the seat and set his feet firmly on the ground, leaning forward a little in unconscious aggression. “I didn’t do anything, Jean-Luc. I was just as surprised as anyone to hear about the accident. I was just as upset, too. Do you know how much work we lost because Ensign Butterfingers couldn’t--.”

“ _Q_ ,” Picard said, drawing out the single letter as much as possible. “It’s not the _work_ that matters, here.”

“Obviously not or else Crusher never would have assigned _my work_ to those incompetents.”

Jean-Luc had rarely felt anger so intense. In fact, he was almost certain that the last time he’d been this full of mind-numbing rage had been Q’s fault, too. No one could anger him, sadden him, or make him laugh quite like Q. “Get out.”

Q looked startled. “You can’t really--?”

“Get _out_ , Q. Don’t make me call security. I would be within my rights to hold you in the brig on suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what? I didn’t _do_ \--.”

“OUT, Q!”

Q’s cocoa sloshed onto the table as he set the mug down with great force. “Fine. Of course. I’ll just be on my way,” the man snapped, all coiled tension and twisted sneer. “Thanks so much for your support, _mon ami_. I should have expected you’d take their word over mine. Who am I, after all? No one of consequence. Certainly not to you.”

Q was out the door before Picard could respond. The man always did like to have the last word.

\--

The investigation, as it was, was put on hold as Starfleet’s orders took greater precedence than the _Stargazer’s_ grapevine whispers.

Esea was idyllic in many ways. The sky was a clear blue with an almost lavender tinge. The air was crisp, thin, and cool--rather like being up in the Alps back on Earth. The main continent was comprised almost entirely of woodland, much of which had been cleared out generations ago to make space for civilization. The buildings were tall and shining in the late-morning light. The people of this particular city—the county capital, according to their guides—seemed friendly and intelligent, though a few of the less experienced crewmembers were intimidated by their large, slit-pupil eyes, agile bodies, and impressively sharp teeth. The Eseans had a solely meat-based diet, as the remnants of their predatory ancestors’ features made clear. From a human perspective, they appeared quite animal, but the race was definitely sentient. They had discovered warp technology many generations previous and had instantly formed economic alliances across the galaxy. The Federation was keen to recruit them, and Picard’s crew was one of the first to be given the honor of laying the groundwork for that collaboration.

“Pretty place,” Jack Crusher said in greeting as he approached his Captain, tricorder in hand. “Think I might retire here, sir.”

The Captain nodded a little, eyes instinctively drawn past Crusher to survey the rest of the science crew trailing behind their CSO. Emily Bender and another Ensign had their heads close together, both reading from the same scanner. Ensign Jiterica—safely ensconced in her full-body stabilizing suit—followed along close behind, the boots of her suit thudding gracelessly through the tall grass as she passed a tricorder before each step, apparently taking readings of the ore-content of the ground. And there, lagging far too many feet for comfort behind, was Q, arms crossed over his chest and a look of utter disdain writ large on his face.

Picard sighed.

Crusher followed the other man’s gaze over his own shoulder and then turned back, grimacing. “I couldn’t just leave him on the ship, sir. We need his massively over-inflated brain.”

“He’s been vocally against this treaty since the order first came in. I need you to keep an eye on him, Jack,” he held up a hand to forestall the man’s objections. “I know it’s not your job to monitor your officers. Even so, I would appreciate it if you would help rein Q in, just this once. The entire Federation would appreciate it, too, I’m sure.”

Jack smirked. “Well, if the _entire Federation_ is counting on me, sir.”

“Quite right,” Picard agreed, returning the smile. “Now, then. Let’s go and meet the delegates, shall we?”

Picard comm-ed Chief Security Officer Joseph to give him an update on the situation. The away team for this meeting consisted of Picard himself, the entire contingent of Science Officers—at the Eseans’ request--and Mr. Joseph, who was currently far ahead, scoping out the delegates’ proposed meeting place. Picard frowned when all he registered was static.

“Lt. Joseph, this is Picard. Do you read?”

Crusher clicked his tongue lightly. “Sorry, sir. I was afraid of this. Preliminary readings showed that the primary ore on this planet emits some kind of natural frequency. The Eseans use it for construction. All of the buildings around us are made of the stuff. Apparently it doesn’t play nicely with our communications systems.”

“Information that might have been useful in the debriefing, Mr. Crusher.”

Crusher winced. “Yes, sir. Honestly, I’d hoped that increasing the output of our commbadges would do the trick.”

He clicked his own badge. Picard’s chirruped obediently. When the Captain moved a few more feet away, however, the badge ceased to respond. “I guess the increase does allow for short-range communication, at least?” Crusher attempted, sheepishly.

Picard sighed. They were late for the meeting. “We’ll worry about that problem later. Perhaps Engineering might have some answers for us. For now, let’s try to make as good a first impression as possible—‘fashionably late’ is a social concept that has not reached much farther than Earth, I believe.”

Walking briskly, the small team arrived at the meeting location—a small office in the city senate building—within just a few minutes. Picard smiled as A’Rita, head of the delegation, stepped forward and bowed her head in greeting. Picard mimicked the gesture and made sure not to straighten until A’Rita had done so. The linguists and cultural experts on the _Stargazer_ had assured him that there was little room for cultural faux pas during the meeting. The Eseans were well used to working with other races on trade agreements and other economic matters. Even so, there were a few markers of respect that were non-negotiable. Picard trusted his crew to be mindful and keep themselves out of trouble. Well, most of them, anyway; Picard did his best not to allow himself to glance behind to check on Q.

“Captain, we welcome you humbly to our capital. We look forward to speaking with you about the possibility of agreement between our people and the Federation.”

“We are honored to be here, Regent A’Rita. The Federation is pleased by your interest in joining its ranks.”

A’Rita nodded, apparently finding the statement more-or-less acceptable, if generic. “Please, let us proceed. The delegation wishes to speak only to you, Captain. Your guard--,” she nodded toward Mr. Joseph—“may also stay. We are gratified to see so many of your scientists, as requested. We, too, value science and study very highly. We have heard many intriguing stories about Starfleet’s advances. We had hoped that our scientists might be able to speak with your own to, ah, ‘compare notes,’ as you say…if you are amendable?”

Picard nodded, having expected something in line with her request from the start. “We are amendable. No official collaboration can be done until our talks are resolved, of course.”

“Of course. We only wish to have the opportunity to learn—if there is anything your officers cannot share, they are free to say so.”

That settled, Picard sent Crusher and his scientists away with an Esean dressed in the high-necked, light-green uniform of their government’s science staff. Picard nodded genially to each blue-uniformed officer as they passed, reaching out as Q passed to squeeze his arm for one brief moment. ‘ _Be good’_ , the motion meant. Q flashed him a dark look back and pulled easily from the hold, jogging a bit to keep up with his peers. They hadn’t spoken since the argument in Jean-Luc’s quarters, and Jean-Luc knew it was unlikely that the tension between them would be resolved any time soon. Q could really hold a grudge when it suited him.  

Picard pushed that familiar lingering sense of foreboding firmly aside and turned his full attention back to the talks. He had a long afternoon ahead of him.

\--

The science liaison—D’argo—flashed his teeth at Q for the second time in the last hour. Crusher had paid very close attention to the mission briefing, and he knew that in this case the “third strike, you’re out” rule was universal. The expression, a feral grimace of aggression, was not one to be taken lightly. The first was considered a courtesy, a warning that offense had been given. The second was a demand for respect and a sign that one’s tolerance was dwindling fast. A third baring of fangs would be a signal just before the attack came. Luckily for them, the Esean considered themselves far too civilized, these days, to go straight for the throat. If Q was lucky, he’d merely end up with a flesh wound or two.

“Mr. Hill,” Crusher warned, his own tone flat and icy. Jack circled around the rest of his staff—all of them focused intently on their work, bless them—and threw an arm over Q’s shoulders, digging his fingers hard into the skin. “Perhaps you and I should have a little talk over that way.”

Q’s own signals of aggression were clear at the moment. His smiles were brittle, his dark eyes flashing fire. His tongue, always sharp, was a fine razor edge. The muscles under Jack’s hand were coiled so tightly that Crusher half expected that it might be Q who would spring into attack, first. At least, he would think so if it weren’t for the fact that Q was a renowned coward. The man held his own in a verbal sparring match, no question, but when threat of physical pain loomed, he tended to back down. The fact that he was not stepping aside now suggested that he either hadn’t paid enough attention in the debriefing—unlikely, despite the fact that he’d spent the entire meeting glued to his PADD, playing strategy games—or whatever had his fur up meant more to him than his own deep seated fear of pain.

Crusher expected a fight, but Q came along willingly, practically dragging Jack over to the quiet, shadowy portion of the lab himself.

“We have to get out of here,” Q hissed. Jack tried not to feel wounded by the lack of ‘sir.’ He’d only ever heard the man call the Captain by the title, and even then there was a certain air of sarcasm about it.

“ _You_ might. D’argo is about one cross-eyed look away from tearing you to pieces. I’d almost let him, actually, except the Captain wouldn’t be happy. Stop baiting the locals, Hill.”

“Don’t call me that,” Q snapped, “And you should stop worrying so much about what I’m doing and pay more attention to the Eseans. I’ve been trying to tell Jean-Luc for weeks, now: this mission isn’t what it seems. Something is very wrong, here.”

Jack frowned, disbelieving. “I’ve never known you to lie so obviously, Q, but that sounds like a hell of a fib, to me. We’ve had people in talks with these people for years, now. They’ve been nothing but friendly and generous. Hell, even now, they’re sharing just has much of their scientific know-how with us as we are them, and you’re not exactly fostering an environment of peace and good will.”

Q shook his head, moving closer, right up in Jack’s personal space. Q was a strangely imposing figure, when he wanted to be--something about the man’s height and the slightly crazed glint in his eye. “I can’t explain it. The details are fuzzy. There’s only so much this, this…feeble…brain can process, but I’m telling you, there is something _wrong_. The Captain—we’re all—in danger.”

Crusher gave Q an assessing glance. The man really was terribly worked up. This wasn’t shocking—Q got worked up over all kinds of things. Last week, he’d nearly popped a vein when Ensign Bender had marked a dataset in red instead of blue. Even so, there was something about the man’s fervor now that set it apart from his usual self-important fits, a kind of desperation, a _need_ to be believed.

“…All right. I’m not just going to pack things up and head out. The Captain wouldn’t want that, and Starfleet would never allow it. Not without due cause. But I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Q. I’ll help you keep an eye out, and if anything suspicious comes up, we’ll report it right away. In the meantime, you keep your wits about you and keep a civil tongue. Okay?”

All of Q’s aggressive tension drained away in a rush. The man went from looming right in Jack’s face to sinking back on his heels, hands loose at his side, head slightly bowed. He looked tired. For the first time, Jack could see why the Captain liked the man, despite, well, _everything else_ about him. Q cared, though his concern presented itself more often as sarcasm and acidity more often than not. Even so, it was obvious—and perhaps had always been so—that Q wanted to keep the Captain safe. As First Officer, Jack also shared that goal. There was no reason why they couldn’t work together, for the Captain’s sake.

“Well, if that’s all you’re going to do,” Q said, but he seemed gratified enough. He did, at least, stop needling the Esean science staff quite so much. He even did the bowing ritual properly when they all broke for a late lunch.

Jack, meanwhile, did as promised and kept a sharper eye on everything around him. Nothing stood out as especially ominous, but when it came to the safety of the Captain and his crew, it was always better to be safe than sorry.

\--

“And what do you think about what the Eseans have to offer in terms of scientific advancement?”

Jack shrugged, sipping his coffee slowly as he puzzled over the question. He had been relieved by the Captain’s suggestion of an informal mission debriefing, but now that the meeting was in full swing, he found that everything he’d wanted to share sounded ridiculous. ‘ _Q says there’s something fishy going on here. How does he know? I don’t know, sir. Still, we should do something about it, right? Because Q had a_ feeling _.’_

“It’s all pretty promising. They are on par, if not slightly more advanced, than we are in terms of advances in genetic research. Collaboration with the Eseans could see us experiencing a definite improvement in the quality of our organ transplant and organic prosthetics developments, which will make a lot of doctors happy. They have also made some impressive progress on some sort of synthetic substance—we didn’t get into the specifics, but the Eseans seem very proud of it. Whatever it is, it should be of interest to the Federation. They mentioned wanting to trade, as well, though I think the translator might have been giving us some trouble. Nothing we can’t sort out later once the talks are over, though.”

“No problems, then?”

Jack knew an opening when he saw it. “Ah, well. There was a little tension, at first. Q…he’s still convinced that something suspect is going on under the surface.”

To his credit, the Captain continued to project an entirely neutral aspect. He sipped his tea. “I see. And do you agree with his assessment?”

“Not as such. I’m willing to take his word for it and stay alert, but I watched the Eseans very closely today, Captain, and nothing stood out. If anything, at this point I would suggest that they are all a little _too_ perfect. Not a crime by any means, but it’s the only possible hint I’ve seen that might indicate something is off.”

Picard hummed in agreement. “I don’t want to make any judgements one way or another, yet. Continue to keep an eye out, but for now we proceed as the Federation has ordered. With any luck, everything will proceed without incident, and a new race of people will be joining our ranks very soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Crusher agreed, though he had a feeling it would all be easier said than done.  

\--

Q glared at Jiterica with all the fierceness he could muster. “This,” he hissed, waving the red-colored wires in front of the Ensign’s faceplate, “is a live charge.” He picked up the blue wires and waved them about as well, though he took care to keep them from the red bunch. “This is a _highly conductive_ wire. If _this_ red wire and _this_ blue wire touch…” he waited, staring expectantly.

“It would be bad?” Ensign Jiterica hazarded, sheepish.

“ _Yes,”_ Q snapped, exasperated, “So what should we NOT do with the dangerous wires that will overcharge and BLOW UP our systems if they touch?”

“Not…put them close together on the desk?”

“Fantastic! Five points for House Stupid. Go away.”

“Yes, sir!” the Ensign’s modulated voice grated out. She then lumbered across the makeshift lab as fast as her clumsy boots would take her.

Q, still grousing, carefully stored said wires—not quite as dangerous as he’d implied, but certainly enough to warn the Ensign off—in the proper way, and then turned back to his waiting terminal. He was exhausted. Sleep was not something he’d ever quite acquired a taste for, especially when his mind had so many other, more important things to do. It was difficult to be Human and a genius all at once. Human brains didn’t seem to process higher-level thinking very well. Even at the significantly slower pace that his mind had functioned for the past twenty-some years, he often found himself at a loss, thoughts whirling with no anchor, feeling frantic and adrift in the possibilities with no real ability to take _action_.

There was something _wrong_ about the Eseans. Q couldn’t quantify it, which meant he couldn’t go about rectifying it, which meant that every second they spent on Esea was a slow agony of high paranoia with no end in sight. He always felt more on edge than he ought—emotions, Human emotions, were unpredictable and volatile things, completely outside of his control. Waiting here for the other shoe to drop was a special kind of torment.

His unease was so intense that the last several evenings he had experienced nightmares. His first ever nightmare had taken place on day three of his new life. Jean-Luc had sent him on his way as the sky darkened, insisting that Q should return home before his—non-existent—parents worried. Unsure of what to do with himself, Q had eventually discovered a decent enough place to sleep in the Picard’s oft-neglected shed. It was uncomfortable, stuffy, and generally terrible, but he’d been tired and sleep came swiftly.  Those first nightmares had left him deeply shaken. Accidentally falling asleep on the _Enterprise_ had not been nearly so cruel.

Many years had passed since that night. Q was resigned to nightmares, now, but he still didn’t embrace them with open arms. There were enough horrors in reality for a mostly-mortal being, he didn’t need them in his sleeping hours, too.

“Good evening, Captain!” Ensign Bender called out, disgustingly cheerful. Bender had been sullen and moody after her return from sickbay, but ever since they’d landed on Esea, her mood had whiplashed back to her previous norm—irritatingly chipper with just a dash of self-conscious reservation. The young scientist lacked in self-esteem, always second guessing her own decisions, often to great detriment. Her lack of confidence made her prone to mistakes, like the event in the lab on the _Stargazer_. It didn’t help that ever since the explosion, she listened to Q even _less_ than she had before—it was impossible to correct her mistakes when she wouldn’t _listen_.

Something creaked and Q glanced reflexively down, forcing his white-knuckled grip on his PADD to ease. Luckily—for a given definition of ‘luck’—his grip wasn’t very impressive since the incident with the ropes so long ago. Otherwise, he might have damaged the equipment. Crusher was already up to his eyeballs in requisition forms since the explosion. Q’s thumbed at his temple idly. His head ached, and it wasn’t likely that the next few minutes were going to help.

“Q,” Jean-Luc said, taking the seat beside him without asking. Of course. Captains had no need for _common decency_ , after all.

“Jean-Luc,” Q drawled, “Something I can do for you?”

“I’ve spoken to Mr. Crusher about his impression of the Eseans. I would like to hear your thoughts, as well.”

“You know my thoughts. I’ve been telling you since we first contacted them—we shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, I know. But perhaps you’d like to expound on this, ah, instinct, now that we’ve been planet-side.”

Q shook his head, keeping his gaze fixated on the PADD. He could juggle several tasks at once with only a little trouble, and it was easy to keep up with the back-and-forth of their conversation while reviewing the data from that afternoon’s tricorder readings. Jean-Luc, however, cleared his throat, clearly feeling ignored. Q continued reading out of spite. “If anything, what I felt before is even stronger, now. That’s all I can tell you, Johnny. I know it’s there, whatever it is. I’ll let you know once I put it all together.”

“I can’t make decisions for the future of the Federation based on one man’s gut feeling, Q.”

“And I can’t make evidence for you out of thin air.” Q snapped, his fingers pausing in their swiping motion against the PAAD screen. “Not anymore,” he added under his breath. The man’s fingers flicked against the PADD’s power button and he spun a bit in his chair, meeting the Captain eye-to-eye. “I’m not asking you to trust me, Jean-Luc. I know better than to do that. But I do ask that you be careful, for once.”

Picard’s eyebrows rose, affronted. “I’m always properly cautious.”

Q snorted a laugh, grinding the palms of his hands against his itchy eyes. “You forget, _mon ami_ , that I know better than that. Remember when you were thirteen and you decided to come to the rescue of little Paul-Henri Colbert? It was one against six—two against, actually, since you pulled me into it, as usual—and those boys were all twice our size, but you did it anyway, no hesitation. And let’s not forget the Nausicaans— _both times_ —and that lovely little excursion in the mountains we took before the Academy. I still think I’m lucky to have gotten out of that mess with all of my toes. And, of course, the stunt you pulled during the attack that earned you captaincy of this rust-bucket in the first place. Shall I go on?”

Jean-Luc grimaced, “I suppose you might have a point. I promise you, Q, I will take every precaution. But you must promise me something in return.”

Q rolled his eyes. “Of course I must. All right, then. What is it?”

Jean-Luc reached forward unexpectedly, the motion just calculated enough that Q could move away if he wished. He didn’t, and the other man’s hand landed warm against his skin, cupping around the nape of his neck and giving him a gentle little shake. It was a familiar gesture, though one that had passed between them only a few times over the years. “Get some sleep,” Picard said.

“If I must,” Q grumbled, but he gamely stood as the Captain did, Jean-Luc’s hand sliding away from his neck, trailing ever-so-briefly against his arm as it fell loosely by his side once more. They walked together back their respective quarters, all bad blood between them, for the moment, forgiven.

\--

In the end, it was the eyebrows of one of the science staff that tipped him off. Individual Eseans shared many primary features—all Eseans had dark, slit-pupiled eyes, sharp teeth, and straight, shiny hair. Their coloring seemed relatively consistent, as well, at least amongst those that the Starfleet team had interacted with so far. They also had thin, arched eyebrows. A’Reen, an Esean whom Q had been working with quite closely the last few days, was an outlier. Her eyebrows were thick and sloped like a Vulcan or a Romulan’s. Q hadn’t noticed, at first, because of how A’Reen’s hair was typically arranged. One morning, however, she tied back the thick fringe to keep it from obscuring her vision during an especially complicated calibration. Q saw the sharp incline of her brow, and everything his mind had subconsciously been cataloging suddenly snapped neatly into place.

D’argo, the scientist whom Q had so mercilessly baited, had dark eyes like all of his peers, but his pupils were far too round, more like a Human’s.

One of the older Eseans they had passed on the street that very morning had the faintest of spots on her skin—not the liver spots of the aged but spots in a pre-determined pattern, like the markings of a Trill.

Once Q’s mind began to understand the aberrations, he saw them nearly everywhere. Only a very few of the Eseans they had met lacked these odd indicators, and all of those individuals were important members of the ruling body, like their Regent, A’Rita, and the other delegates. None of Starfleet’s meticulous records made any mention of inter-breeding between the Esean population and other species. Q’s instincts were singing loud, now, and he _knew_ it was nothing so mundane as genetic drift in action.

There were also no children. Q hadn’t noticed this on his own. He didn’t care much about grubby ankle-biters, and the places they had toured—mostly governmental buildings and ports of commerce—would hardly have been a place for kids, regardless. It was Jack Crusher who had mentioned it. Q, Crusher, and Bender had been standing together outside, enjoying a faint breeze and chatting idly. Bender had mentioned the pleasing state of the woodlands around them, and Crusher had responded with his usual tiresome enthusiasm, gushing about how his son—now walking and quite adventurous, it seemed—would love to climb a particular spruce-like growth nearby. The mention of the Crusher brat had pinged in Q’s head, and between the three of them they determined that, yes, indeed, they had seen no offspring of the Esean during their regular visits.

Finally, there was the substance. The Esean scientists had been cagey about it from the start, though their excitement over the apparent breakthrough had been clear. It was one of the things that they had declined to discuss in detail until the talks were resolved and they were officially candidates for Federation membership. Their reticence was not unexpected—there were plenty of Starfleet innovations that Crusher’s team had been tight-lipped about, too. It was a sensible precaution. For all its big talk of collaboration and universal unity, blind trust was not the Federation way. Now, however, as Q continued to war with the feelings of uncertainty and discomfort that these people invoked in him, the secrecy seemed just another straw that broke the sehlat’s back. He decided to take a closer look.

Creating a distraction was no hardship. Bender’s mistake in the lab gave him the idea, in fact, and it was little work at all to set up a small, time-released explosion on the other side of the senate. Crusher had gotten that heroic gleam in his eye and it had been easy to convince the man to go check it out. Convincing Bender and Jiterica to guide the Esean civilians to safety was similarly simple—honestly it was like Starfleet officers had a _compulsion_ to save the day. Q had followed the group of evacuating individuals for a few feet but then had managed to slip away in the chaos back to the Esean labs.

The substance was housed in a secure containment field, but Q had watched one of the Esean scientists type in the access code a few times throughout each day to take some sort of readings. Though he hadn’t meant to do so and had barely been paying attention to it at the time, he’d automatically memorized the pattern. The soft electric crackle as the shield dropped was music to the man’s ears. He grabbed up one of the small, capped vials and re-established the field before running out of the lab to join the other scientists in the open quad area. The Starfleet personnel had formed a loose perimeter and the Esean delegates stood in the blocked off space, speaking urgently amongst themselves about the possible attack.

When Picard and several Esean security officers—all with subtle physical markers of other species, Q noted without surprise—returned, they assured the masses that it had been an accident and all was well. Picard met Q’s eyes in the crowd, however, and Q knew that he’d been found out. The barely contained anger and disappointment in the Captain’s eyes stung, but Q knew he’d be forgiven once everything was explained. A little explosion was nothing compared to what the Eseans were up to, and now Q had proof.

\--

“Everything is right there, in the data. I ran the tests three times. I think we should get DNA samples to be sure, but that’s more Greyhorse’s area than mine.”

Q had never seen Jean-Luc so pale. He felt rather bad for putting that shocked, horrified expression on the other man’s face, but it had to be done. The Federation couldn’t possibly condone an alliance with these people—in fact, Q wouldn’t be surprised if the Federation decided to intercede completely, Prime Directive be damned.

“How long do you believe the Eseans have been using this…alternate means of procreation?”

“What a diplomatic way of putting it. Well done, Jean-Luc!”

“Q,” Picard said. He seemed very tired, now, abruptly aged beyond his thirty-six years. Q _really_ didn’t like to see him that way, old and fragile and pained.

“From what we can scrape together from the data and what historical records the Esean allowed us to access, I’d hazard a guess that the race has been suffering from increasing sterility for quite some time—several hundred years, at least. Records to prove it have been conveniently misplaced, but I have a feeling that the species developed a natural adaptation to combat the drop in procreation within just a few generations. The situation only became dire within the last generation or so, prompting the production of that synthetic substance they’re so proud of, a synthetic version of a similar, ah, venom that the Eseans excrete naturally, probably in much smaller quantities and with more variances in successful transition.”

“There are a lot of implied ‘maybes’ in that statement, Q,” Jack Crusher threw in, the first thing he’d said since Q first presented him with the reports. The man looked nearly as haggard as his Captain, in fact, but Q didn’t feel as bad about it.

“I’ve shown you all the evidence I have, which is surely damning enough. I admit, the motives and means are mostly conjecture, but considering my advanced intellect, I think we can assume I’m not too far off the mark. I’m sure the Eseans will be happy to clarify things once the Federation has confronted them about the matter.”

“Turning members of other species into one of their own as a defense against extinction,” Picard murmured, his gaze somewhere off in the middle distance. “It’s absurd. If I couldn’t see it right here in front of me…well, it would be one of your better stories, Q.”

Q sniffed, not sure if he was wounded or flattered.

“What I don’t understand is why don’t the transformed beings kick up a fuss? Do you think there is some kind of amnesia that kicks in when an individual is…dosed? It does seem likely that it causes alterations in the brain as well as the body.” Crusher frowned thoughtfully at his PADD as he thought out loud. None of the Eseans they had encountered seemed to be there under duress. Even so, it seemed unlikely that anyone would volunteer for such a complete alteration of self. The Eseans had been trading with other species, many of them members of the Federation, for a very long time—individuals must have been disappearing from trade ships and tourist shuttles for a long while, but there were no reports as far as Starfleet knew. People disappeared or died in space all the time—exploration was a dangerous enterprise. Thinking of those people, captured and changed against their will into a whole different _species_ made Crusher’s skin crawl.

Q just shrugged in response to the man’s question. Q knew what it was to be altered from what one once was into something entirely different; he was less bothered by the idea. Of the three in the room, he was certainly the most unaffected emotionally. Even so, what the Eseans had been doing all this time made him feel uneasy and also something else, something just out of reach. His history was wrapped up in this place somehow, he was sure, but like so much from his past in the Q Continuum, it was hazy and out of reach. It was difficult for a mortal brain to wrap itself around the infinity, the eternity, of being Q. The man was probably lucky he couldn’t recall those fleeting memories—to do so would break his mind. That knowledge, that _understanding_ had seemed a small price to pay, in the moment. There were times, however, like now, when he regretted it, just a little.

Picard cleared his throat and sat back, spine Captain straight, and pulled on his tunic. Q’s regrets flew right out of his mind, replaced only with a warm sensation of pride and affection. Jean-Luc had processed the horror of the situation, and now Captain Picard was there to put right what was wrong in the universe. Straight-backed and grim-faced, he was truly a gratifying sight.

“I want this data organized and a report compiled for Starfleet Headquarters and the Federation Council as soon as possible. Until we receive a reply, we will continue this diplomatic mission as originally intended. I don’t want this to turn into a circus of accusations and unsanctioned repercussions,” Picard declared.

Crusher nodded, “Yes, sir. And the crew?”

“Jean-Luc, you can’t tell them,” Q interrupted, urgently.

Picard shot Q a wry look. “I didn’t intend to. You’re right. We don’t want this satiation to filter into the ship rumor mill. Many of our crewmembers belong to the races we believe have been…assimilated…by the Eseans. We don’t want anyone to react hastily. We’ll send out a ship-wide once we’ve heard from Starfleet. Anything else?”

Q swallowed. The word ‘assimilated’ had sent a sudden chill down his spine. Perhaps that was what had him so on edge about what was happening on Esea; it was too much like the Borg. The Borg hadn’t mattered much to Q one way or another when he’d been, well, a Q. Now, however, their methods seemed truly unconscionable. The man blinked owlishly as Jean-Luc called his name, perhaps not for the first time. For a brief moment, Q had found himself lost in the future. The Borg would be a problem for another time, years from now. Mortals—and semi-mortal former entities—had to operate in the present. “No, nothing else. Except I think you ought to take a full security complement with you, this time. Knowing what we do now, _mon capitaine_ , I don’t feel comfortable leaving you with just Pug.”

Picard didn’t put up a fight about it, and that alone said a lot about how dangerous the mission had suddenly become.

\--

To say that the next several hours were tense would be a grievous understatement. Crusher was remarkably capable at keeping a lid on his emotions. He was just as a pleasant and professional as he’d been since the start of this ill-fated diplomatic mission. Picard, too, carried on admirably, though Q could see that the friendly light that had been in his eyes before had disappeared, replaced with a core of steel that, had the Eseans been able to detect it, might have ruined everything. The rest of the away team had no idea of what was happening beneath the surface and were therefore perfectly able to work as well as they ever did. Q was a mess. He’d always been quite adept at the odd con. He could bluff, lie, and manipulate with the best of them, when it suited his desires. At the same time, however, his Human form’s face was an open book. Stripped of his core essence, rendered more mortal than not, he couldn’t keep his emotions from writing themselves, loud and clear, on his face.

Crusher, Q, Bender, and D’argo were the only scientists working in the lab—the rest of the scientists, both Esean and Starfleet, were taking readings outside of the main city, hoping to take more readings of the natural ore in an attempt to work around Starfleet’s communications issue. Q kept his words short and to the point. He did his work with his usual dogged dedication, and he even managed a reasonably pleasant aspect most of the time. But then he’d remember something—D’argo’s round-pupil eyes, a female Esean’s oddly webbed fingers, a glimmer of something _not right_ in one of the locals around him—and he _knew_ that all of his disgust, all of his concern, all of his _anger_ was showing on his face. Perhaps he had not been so unaffected by this situation as he’d thought, before.

Some of these people had been Human, once. If he hadn’t recognized the danger, if he and Crusher hadn’t managed to spot the evidence that was hidden between the lines, some of their team may have been taken, too. Jean-Luc could have been taken, forced to live as one of these sharp-teethed, dark-eyed predators, barely recognizable save for some small genetic marker that stood out from the Esean norm.

Q dropped a beaker. The shatter was remarkably loud in the busy lab. Before he’d thought about it, he fell to his knees in the mess and started to pick up the shards of glass, mumbling apologies that didn’t make sense even to his own ears.

“Stop it. Q, stop. You’ve cut yourself. _Stop_ , Lieutenant.” Crusher’s hands were much wider than Q’s. His fingers were stubby, and his nails were remarkably dirty for a Starfleet officer. Q blinked at the hands wrapped so tightly around his wrists. Slowly, he eased his own hands open. The bloodied shards of glass tinkled—more merrily than they ought—against the floor. His hands. He should have known better. His hands were already mangled enough as it was. He hoped the cuts were shallow, that they wouldn’t add to his scars. He’d be discharged if he lost any more of his range of motion. A small, more genius part of Q’s horribly Human mind marveled; he was having some kind of breakdown. Amazing.

“They know we know,” Q whispered, his wide-eyed gaze finding Crusher’s own. Crusher frowned, likely about to argue or tell Q to be quiet, but Q’s eyes flickered over his shoulder and Crusher instinctively turned to follow that terror-stricken gaze.

“Damn,” Crusher swore, and it was the last thing he’d ever say.

\--

In the aftermath, Q could only be grateful that he’d closed his eyes when the attack occurred. Even without seeing it happen, his nightmares were full of Crusher’s screams for years afterward. Later on, when he and Jean-Luc brought the body to Beverly Crusher and her son, Jean-Luc would take Beverly’s hands in his own and tell her, full of apology and regret, that her husband had died saving another man’s life. If Q had been anyone but himself, the guilt may have crippled him. As it was, he took the nightmares as his due.

That was later. In the current moment, Q yelped as he was gripped in the strong hold of D’argo. The predatory nature of the Esean race was frighteningly apparent, now. Q had never seen such sharp teeth so terribly close to his face, before. D’argo’s mouth was dripping red.

Q didn’t want to die. He couldn’t die. He had to live. He had given up everything—literally, the entirety of time and space!—for a chance to…to have…and now….

“Let him go.” Q gaped at Ensign Emily Bender. The small, mousey woman looked quite different when she stood like that, stance wide, a phaser rifle drawn and at the ready. “I said let him go.” The phaser was not set to stun.

“Put down the weapon, and we will spare your life,” D’argo said, and his tone was surprisingly gentle for a creature who had just torn a man’s throat out. “You can have a new life, a better life. You can join the Esean.”

“Is that the same schtick they gave you before they poisoned you?” Q asked. He bit back a shout as the grip around his arms tightened, causing his bones to creak.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Bender said, and god did Q wish he’d advised the Captain differently; they could use more officers in the know right about now, “but I don’t think your lot is going to be joining the Federation anytime soon.” She was moving, Q realized, slowly working her way in a wide arc around the room—headed for what, Q couldn’t see, but he hoped to whatever forces in the universe may be listening that she wouldn’t screw it up as usual.

D’argo made a dismissive sound. “It does not matter. We hoped to join the Federation only to encourage more travel to our planet. We need more children. Our current means do not bring in the numbers we need.”

Q hummed softly, understanding all too well. “New Federation planets always experience a sharp boost in trade and tourism for several years after their induction. You’d increase the number of beings coming in and out by ten-fold, maybe even more. It must be hard to keep your kidnappings under wraps. You can probably only take one or two people every few years. But if _hundreds_ of Federation allies come to visit this place, you can safely take more… _children_ …at once and still chalk it up to the unknown mysteries of the cosmos when they disappear. And now that you can produce ‘offspring’ synthetically--.”

D’argo gave him a sharp shake. “I do not need you to explain what we would do. That opportunity has not yet passed. You found out, but you can be silenced.”

Bender was still shuffling slowly toward the nearest console. A console, of course! Their comms didn’t work properly on Esea. All of the technology in the senate building was integrated, however. It would take hardly any effort at all to summon help if she could tap into the building’s system and trip the right frequency. How surprisingly clever!

“Well of course I found out,” Q snorted, talking a little more loudly and more emphatically, now, in an attempt to keep the Esean’s attention focused more on him than Emily’s shuffling. She only had a few inches to go. “I’m a genius, after all. My IQ used to be over one-thousand, you know. It’s not as high now—the Human brain really is _so_ limited—but I’m still exceptionally gifted.”

“If you were smarter, your friend would not be dead,” D’argo said, matter-of-factly.

“And if _you_ were smarter, you wouldn’t have let me near this console!” Bender grinned triumphantly as flipped a final switch.

Nothing happened. Q groaned. He _really_ didn’t want to die.

“Oh! Wait. I forgot--.” Another click, and suddenly the building resounded with a shrill, frantic alarm. If that didn’t send Picard and the security complement running toward the trouble, Q didn’t know what would. Starfleet, honestly.

Bender’s plan wasn’t a terrible one, but it wasn’t quite as thorough as Q might have wished, either. For one thing, _someone_ was still in the clutches of one very irritated Esean. The man yelped as he felt his center of gravity shift. D’argo had swung him around and was dragging him away! Q struggled mightily, but he was no match for the inherent physical strength of the transformed being. Phaser fire sizzled just past Q’s ear and he howled at the near-miss, screaming at Bender to correct her aim, dammit!

D’argo ran toward the containment field, pulling Q along with him like a rag doll. Q felt his heart sink. The scientist was going after the synthetic substance, the liquid that would change any being into an Esean. Q was a genius. He knew where this was going.

“No!” he shouted, kicking out uselessly. Q had already had his species altered enough to last him several lifetimes—literally. He couldn’t do this again—at least before he’d still mostly been himself. The Esean substance didn’t allow for that. Beings dosed into being ‘children’ of this race lost all resistance.

_‘Resistance is futile_ ,’ Q thought, inanely, hysteria bubbling up in his throat.

Phaser fire whined near his ear, but this time it actually hit something useful. D’argo roared in pain and fell to the ground, allowing Q to escape from his loosened hold. Bender ran forward, shooting D’argo again and again until the Esean fell still. The air smelled of charred meat, and Q gagged, dragging himself away on his hands and knees. That alarm was getting really annoying. Reflexively, he tried to stop it with a thought, but it didn’t work. ‘ _Oh, right.’_

“Hill? Are you okay, Lieutenant?” Bender’s hands on his face were not as warm as Crusher’s had been on his wrists what seemed eons before. Q flinched reflexively away from her. He’d been touched more than enough for the day.

“The Captain,” he shouted over the alarm, struggling to his feet. He foolishly tried to push himself up with his hands, first, and hissed in pain. Bender ignored all of his ‘don’t touch me’ vibes and grabbed him under the arms, pulling him up with surprising force.

“I’m not sure, sir. We should get out of h--.”

“Q! Ensign Bender!”

Q allowed himself a moment to verify that, yes, that was Jean-Luc Picard running toward them, armed with a phaser and a full Security complement behind him, before he sagged with relief against the still-active containment field. The electric components snapped and crackled a bit against his back in complaint, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stand on his own two feet, right now, not for anything.

\--

“No permanent damage done,” Dr. Greyhorse assured, passing the dermal regenerator over Q’s fingers one more time for good measure. “You’ll be a little tingly for a few days, though.”

“Tingly I can handle,” Q replied, distantly. Everything had felt a bit distance since they’d gotten back from Esea. The mission had been a wash. The Federation was furious. It might actually lead to some kind of war. Q didn’t care about that part as much, though. He was thinking more about Jack Crusher, whom he’d never liked and now was dead. He thought about Ensign Bender, who he’d never trusted and yet had saved his life. Human beings were, as ever, utterly baffling.

“Q? I’d like to give something to help you sleep. Would that be all right?”

Q shook his head before the doctor was even done speaking. “No,” he said, forcing himself to sit up and be present. “I don’t have time for your hypos and hand-holding, Greyhorse. Do you know the kind of paperwork this mission is going to require? And all of it doubtlessly needs the signature of yours truly.” Q slipped off the bio-bed and did his best not to let his knees buckle too much.

“Q--.”

Q offered the doctor a little wave. “Buh-bye, Doctor.” In the old days, he would have chosen that moment to disappear in an impressive flash of light. He settled now for walking briskly through the medibay doors.

\--

Bender found him almost immediately. This was fair, as Q hadn’t done a very good job of hiding away. The lab was a pretty obvious place for him to go under most circumstances, especially ones like these. The bottle of Andorian brandy was, perhaps, a bit of a surprise, but if Bender was offended she didn’t show it, especially after Q had obligingly poured her a glass.

“I didn’t know you drank.”

“I don’t. I _hate_ being drunk,” Q said, shuddering a little. “Losing control of one’s faculties…it’s… _barbaric_ and _horrifying_.”

Bender raised a brow, glancing at the bottle in question. Q shrugged. “I’ve discovered something, today: the _universe_ is barbaric and horrifying, Ensign. So I might as well imbibe.” Q threw back his glass with remarkable alacrity for a novice. To be fair, it was his third drink. The first one had mostly dribbled down his front, but he’d gotten the hang of it pretty quickly.

“I’ve always known, actually,” Q disclosed a half-hour and another shot between them later. “About the universe, I mean. I used to know _all_ of it. But it’s different, now.” The man stared blankly at his empty glass. It was sort of blurry. “Everything is so different.”

“I lied,” Bender blurted. She was two more shots in at that point and listing a bit in her chair. Q didn’t really notice, though, because the whole room was already spinning around. It reminded him of something he couldn’t actually remember—something about the movement of the stars.

“Yes, I’ve done that, too.”

“N-no. I mean, I lied about the accident. You didn’t do it.”

Q laughed. It sounded odd, sort of strangled and brandy-soaked. “I know I didn’t.”

“No. No. I know. I just. I told everyone I saw you set it up. But I know you didn’t. It just happened. Humans have a saying: shit happens. It was shit. It happened. I s-shouldn’t…shouldn’t have--.”

Q was on the floor. He didn’t remember getting there, but he was glad he was there because the floor was steady against his back and the ceiling was beautiful, an endless expanse of white. He could remember that—an endless expanse of white nothingness, and Jean-Luc Picard, reaching out for his hand. His hands ached. It was old pain. All pain aged, eventually. That didn’t make it hurt any less. He waved a hand at her, at the air. It flopped about but got the point across fine, he felt. “It’s okay. You hate me. Bad things happened. I did it. It makes sense. Very human.”

“I don’t hate you,” Bender mumbled, but she was drunk, so whatever she said was clearly ridiculous.

\--

Jean-Luc knew, deep down, that he should be shouting about now. He was the Captain, after all, and two of his officers were currently sprawled out, unconscious and reeking of alcohol, on his ship.

_‘They aren’t on duty,’_ he thought, stepping wide around Ensign Bender, _‘And God knows I’d like to join them if I could_.’

Q was curled up tight on the floor. The sight was like a kick in the chest, sending a flood of memories from somewhere deep in the Picard’s mind. Q had slept like that hundreds of times in Picard’s bed. He’d knock against Jean-Luc’s window in the late night hours, wide-eyed and twitchy, and Jean-Luc would sigh and slide over, throwing the blankets over the other boy without a word.

Jean-Luc had never met Q’s parents. He’d never been allowed. Q had been cagey, at first, and then increasingly frantic every time Jean-Luc had asked. Even now, he had no idea what Q’s home life might have been like. But whatever it was, it made the man sleep like that, hugging himself close as if he expected to be torn apart at any moment.

Jean-Luc knelt down and nearly reached out, but he stopped just short of touching the other man’s shoulder. Somewhere between the infirmary and the lab, Q had stopped to change out of his bloodied uniform. His civilian tunic had short sleeves, revealing bruises on Q’s wrists and arms. Red welts stood out starkly on the side of his neck. Bender’s quick debrief had revealed that the Esean D’argo had gotten rough with Q toward the end. Greyhorse could have healed the marks up easily, but Picard knew better than most how odd Q could be about injuries to his person—he was either screaming in agony, demanding recompense for the smallest of papercuts or sitting silent and tense while he bled to death, with no in-between. _‘He’s stubborn’_ Picard thought, and he knew that, in truth, Q wasn’t the only one who suffered the sin of pride. If Jean-Luc had only _listened_ to Q’s initial concerns, none of this would have happened.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Jean-Luc startled slightly and he quirked a brow down at his friend. Q had only one eye open, and that only barely. Jean-Luc raised the hand that was still hovering awkwardly between them. “I’ve come to take you to bed.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Q mumbled, the words nearly lost in the slur. Not nearly enough, though. Jean-Luc’s hand dropped back to his side immediately, and he practically leapt to his feet.

Q rolled with effort onto his side and stared up at Picard reproachfully at his scramble. Jean-Luc felt himself blush. It _had_ been a ridiculous reaction. In apology, he leaned forward and offered his hand again. Q grunted boozily and gripped the other man’s forearm, allowing himself to be pulled upright. He stumbled and Jean-Luc was there, one arm around his waist with Q’s arm going instinctively over Jean-Luc’s neck.

“Wha’bout Bender?”

Jean-Luc frowned thoughtfully down at the young Ensign. “I think she’ll be all right.”

“S’gonna get a kink in her neck,” Q argued, slumping more heavily against Jean-Luc’s side. Jean-Luc sighed softly. He had been trying to keep the young officer from embarrassment. He certainly couldn’t come back for her.

“Pug knows her. Likes her. Wouldn’t tell,” Q said.

Jean-Luc did have a few dim memories of his Head of Security and the Ensign spending some hours together in the commissary and in the rec room over games of Go. He punched his comm-badge—it would be a long while before he stopped feeling a rush of gratitude that they _worked_ —and called the officer who was, as Q had predicted, entirely professional and more than willing to help.

“It was nice of you to think of the Ensign’s comfort,” Picard said after they saw the Ensign off safely and started their way to the nearest turbolift.

Q rolled his head back a bit so as to better glance at Picard’s profile. His body felt so heavy, and so did his brain, making it hard to think of the right response. This was why he hated drinking. Never again. “She doesn’t hate me.”

“Oh?” Picard said, and he sounded amused, which was baffling to Q.

“Mm. She said so. Also said wasn’t me. The lab thing.”

“Well, that’s good. No reason to continue that particular investigation, then.”

“No. Told you I didn’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t’ listen to you. About the accident and about the Esean.”

Q squinted at him and snorted, head falling back against the man’s shoulder, “Only sayin’ that ‘cos m’drunk.”

“Most assuredly,” Picard agreed, gamely. He propped the other man against the turbolift wall while it rocketed up to crew quarters.

“Wrong way,” Q muttered in confusion as Picard moved to the left side hallway instead of the right.

“We’re going to my rooms.”

“Oh.”

It was a bit of a slog to drag Q across the large suite but quite easy to push the man over onto the bed. Pulling off his boots was a struggle, but rolling him over onto the leftmost side of the mattress was simple. Things were always like that with Q—difficult and easy in turn, striking a kind of unexpected balance. Jean-Luc huffed a laugh at himself. He was thinking in circles and errant thoughts, too tired and overwhelmed to fight it.

It wasn’t until Q was curled up in that too-tight ball at his side and Jean-Luc himself was lying on his back, dozing, that the full extent of their mission fell upon him, suffocating and cruel. Starfleet had recalled them. In the morning, they would return to Earth for an exhaustive debrief with the Federation Council. There would be endless talks of what had happened and where to go from here. The future of the Esean race would be decided—Picard doubted very much that it would be a pleasant one. Even now, the planet was swarming with Starfleet security personnel from other ships that had been called in. He tried not to think of all of the innocents who were there now, waiting fearfully under house arrest. It wasn’t the fault of the Esean ‘children,’ not all of them. Would the Federation see fit to return those people to their families? Would that in itself be a punishment, to be reunited with a loved one who was something, _someone_ completely different, now, than they’d been before?

Families. Jack Crusher’s family. Jean-Luc intended to return the body to them personally. He’d do it before docking at Headquarters. Starfleet wouldn’t like it, but Starfleet could go to _hell_.

Q made a small, unhappy noise and turned over in his sleep. Jean-Luc watched him, not at all surprised when Q’s body uncurled from that tense ball and folded up against him, instead. Q’s head nestled against Jean-Luc’s clavicle, his arm flopping loosely over Jean-Luc’s ribs, Q’s knee bony pressing against Jean-Luc’s leg. Jean-Luc smiled despite himself. Q didn’t seem to know it, but this was familiar, too. Hundreds of times, Q had slept in his bed, and it had always ended up like this.

By morning, he’d be rolled up on himself, again, but for now…it was good. It was all right. Everything else would have to wait.

\--

After the funeral, after the endless debriefings, Jean-Luc Picard shuffled into his borrowed rooms at Starfleet HQ thinking only of sleep.

He was, therefore, not at all surprised to find Q there and sprawled out on the bed with a PADD in hand, concentrating furiously on the screen.

“Aren’t you on leave? What are you working on?”

Q broke contact with the PADD just long enough to offer Jean-Luc a small smile. “I may be on leave, but Starfleet is not. I’ve just received an unwanted communiqué. I’m trying to decide how to say ‘no, fuck off’ politely.”

Jean-Luc huffed a tired laugh, flopping down on the bed next to his friend. “I’ve never known you to worry about being polite, before.”

“Mm, well, in this particular case, I don’t want to push my luck. One wrong word could find me demoted to some garbage scow ship at the backend of the quadrant, and then what would you do?”

“What _wouldn’t_ I do?” Jean-Luc teased. He rolled over on his side, staring at Q’s hands—they just seemed particularly interesting, in the room’s dim light. “What’s the order?”

Q sighed, pushing the PADD toward him. “You probably got the message, too. Promotions are the Captain’s prerogative, after all.”

Jean-Luc blinked and skimmed the long message once, and then read it again a bit more carefully, just in case he’d missed something that Q might object to. “I don’t understand. This is a commendation. They want to promote you to my CSO. Don’t you….Q, you _want_ to be CSO.”

Q pulled the PADD rather roughly from Jean-Luc’s grasp and shook his head, falling back against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling. He always did that—staring up at blank white space as if he thought he might be able to see beyond it, if he tried hard enough. “No, _mon ami_. Not like this.”

“Jack would have wanted it this way. He knew you were smart. He’d be the first to say that you are capable enough. Besides, the younger officers are scared of you—they always do their best work when you’re around to push them.”

“I don’t want it, Johnny.”

“But _why_?” Jean-Luc said, feeling helpless and, oddly, angry. Jack Crusher had died, and Q was treating this opportunity—earned with the man’s _death_ , for God’s sakes—like it was something distasteful.

“I don’t want that kind of power. No, that’s not right. I’ve always liked power. I don’t want that kind of…responsibility. I’m not ready for it.”

“Q--.”

“Crusher…Jack…died a hero. He was always going to die a hero, even if he lived to Admiralty. He _felt_ it, Jean-Luc, that need to protect and serve his officers and all the people in this universe to the bitter end. I don’t feel that. Starfleet should bring in someone else.”

“You’ve always protected _me_ , Q.”

Q’s smile was rueful. “That’s different. You know it is. Please, _mon Capitaine_.”

Jean-Luc sighed, but he shrugged, all anger gone. “It’s your decision, of course.”

“Of course it is,” Q replied, but he sounded flat. Q’s life was Jean-Luc’s life; no decision he made was ever truly his own. The other man just didn’t realize it, yet, and maybe he really never would. It didn’t matter. Q would continue to follow him. To the bitter end. _‘And then what?’_ he wondered, not for the first time. _‘Trade yourself to the Continuum once more, start all over again and again? Someday, Q, he is going to die, and you’ll have to let him go.’_

“There’s an astrophysicist on Starbase 32—that man we met when we spoke to Beverly. You talked to him for a while about his work. What did you think of him?”

Q frowned, a little confused by the sudden detour in the conversation. “Schuster. He wasn’t a complete idiot. He liked my ideas about wormholes. Why?”

“I’ll put in my suggestion to Starfleet, that’s why. We should have a CSO you can work with, someone who will give you enough freedom to feel comfortable.”

Q’s answering smile was brilliant. “Yes. I think that’s a good idea.”

“I want you to keep supervising the more junior scientists,” Picard continued, severely, “I don’t want any more thoughtless accidents on my ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Q drawled, though in truth the idea pleased him. He was actually growing rather fond of Ensign Bender. She wasn’t _completely_ useless, after all.

“I can write the response for you, if you like,” Jean-Luc offered, holding out a hand for the PADD.

Q surrendered it without hesitation. “You always were better at that kind of thing.”

“Please, Q. Don’t try to butter me up. You always tried to flatter me into writing your Sociology papers just in that way, too—it never worked.”

“Says the man who is, right at this moment, doing my homework for me.”

“This is different.”

“I respectfully disagree. This is _much_ worse than Sociology. And I never would have thought that was possible.”

Jean-Luc smiled, fingers tapping quickly over the keys as he wrote out Q’s polite reply, declining the position of Chief Science Officer of the _U.S.S. Stargazer_. Jean-Luc supported Q’s decision—if he didn’t want to advance, that was his choice. Maybe someday the man would feel more up to the challenge. Until then, at least they could continue working together on their ship.

“I’m starving,” Q complained a while later as the two of them huddled over a Dixon Hill holovid. They’d both seen the video at least a dozen times, but it was one of Jean-Luc’s favorites and just what he needed to wind down from the stressors of the day.

“There’s chocolate sundaes in the commissary,” Jean-Luc noted, cheering softly as Dixon managed to out maneuver the bad guys once more.

Q was already up and adjusting his uniform jacket. “Well, what are we waiting for? Hot fudge waits for no man.”

Jean-Luc laughed and put the PADD aside obligingly. The two men walked close as they made their way to the commissary, their arms close enough to brush. Their last mission had been difficult. A good man was dead, and there were evils in the universe the likes of which some lesser men could only dream of. Even so, there were new adventures on the horizon. Ice cream waited for them in the commissary. And though friends had been lost, the two of them were still alive and together, ready to take on whatever came their way. It was enough.

He was content with his lot in life, and so was Q.


End file.
